13 - 19 September 2001
Issue No.551
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Al-Ahram Weekly Online 13 - 19 September 2001 Issue No.551 |
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Mother dearest
"Will you be needing to go to Victoria's Secret?" my older daughter asked as we were leaving her house, headed for a mall in Sarasota. I didn't think so, I told her. "Good," she said enthusiastically. "I was afraid you might be planning to treat us to a repeat performance of last year's bra incident." I wasn't sure what she was referring to, but squeals of mirth from my younger daughter and my granddaughter clearly suggested that I must have acted indecorously on that occasion. The more curious I became, the less prepared they were to tell me what the story was, insisting amidst bursts of laughter that I could not have forgotten such a momentous affair.
Finally I managed to gather that, on the fateful day in question, I had walked up and down the exclusive establishment brandishing a bra and shouting: "Look at this bra, it's a lovely bra, I want this bra, I'll go and try it on, what a perfect bra," and had thus, to their greatest embarrassment, attracted the amused attention of the clients and personnel. Furthermore, according to the Floridian part of my family, I pronounced the word bra in a strongly accented English, rolling the "r" as if there were several, indicating to all and sundry that I was a foreigner. "But I am, you know," I said lightly, trying to conceal my mirth at their imitation; "besides, what was it that upset you most, my use of the word, or the way I pronounced it?" They agreed that the whole incident had caused them to feel not only ridiculous but the centre of attention, which they hated.
I tried to remember instances when I had been embarrassed by my own parents. I must have gone through the stage, common to most adolescents, during which one cringes at one's parents' words and actions, especially when witnessed by strangers. I could come up with very few examples, if I excepted the time when my father showed off his proficiency in Italian to impress my Roman boyfriend and was complimented with an ironic smile for his "excellent" command of the language. Other than that, I must have been too busy being mortified by my own faux pas to notice theirs.
On the other hand, I clearly recalled the gala evening in which I saw my best friend arrive with her mother, drawing an astonished gasp from the diners. My friend wore a plain cocktail dress, but her mother was clad in the most amazing purple satin and chiffon number I had ever had a chance to lay my young eyes on. Since she was given to indulging generously in pasta and vino, she seemed literally ready to pop out of the skin-tight sheath. The colours of her generously applied makeup had been chosen to match her hair, dyed a powerful aubergine. The various hues of mauve gave her a positively diabolical air, not unlike an inflated balloon in the shape of Cruella de Vil or a much older version of Verrucca Salt after she had consumed the blueberry pie in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Yet I could see that her daughter was looking at her with adoring eyes. "Well, at least I never turned up at one of your parties dressed in purple," I murmured. "I beg your pardon,?" asked my daughter. "Nothing, keep driving," I said.
At the mall, we went straight to our favourite shop. The previous year, I had struck up a conversation with one of the salesgirls, Bridget, who had insisted on calling her Egyptian boyfriend to introduce him to me. We had chatted in Arabic for a while, attracting interest of course, and he had told me how much he missed Cairo.
I wasn't too anxious to meet him again, but not worried enough to shun the shop either. "Just avoid familiarity with her," my daughter advised, "and please don't speak Arabic. Every Arab here is considered a potential terrorist."
The salesgirl was overjoyed to see us. She had asked about me several times, she said, and her boyfriend was longing to see me. I made polite noises and concentrated on my purchases. She kept hovering around me, delighted by the commission she would make on my many acquisitions. Once we were done, it was time to pay. "Cash or charge?" she asked. As the amount was rather important, I extended my credit card. She busied herself with it while a queue of customers formed behind me. "I'm sorry," she said finally. "I've tried three times, and every time it's been declined." I knew that we had not reached our limit, but now was not the time to argue. I could feel my daughters' eyes, as well as those of the other clients, boring holes through my back. "Don't worry about it," I said with a smile, and extended cash instead.
"That's it," said my daughter, as we were walking out. "I will never shop here again." "The way we are going, we won't be able to shop at all in Sarasota," I joked. "Remember, you wanted me to retire here. Will I have to remain home for lack of clothes and bras?" "Don't say bra," the girls shouted together, and burst out laughing. "You should have seen Bridget's face when she realised the credit card was not working. For a moment, she thought she had gone to all that trouble for nothing," they guffawed. Anyway, Bridget's courtesy was to stand her in good stead: the credit card was accepted in the next shop. That day, we managed to make it home without the girls having to blush anymore about their mother's blunders.
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